7. Moving Out

I woke to the sharp, stinging smell of antiseptic. Every inch of my body ached as if I'd been beaten black and blue.

Turning my head to the right, I found David leaning against one of the hospital's waiting chairs. His dress shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and exhaustion lingered on his handsome face.

'A hospital...?'

What happened?

"You're awake."

That deep baritone voice—my least favorite sound in the world.

I looked at him with raised brows.

"You passed out, so I brought you here. The doctor said you have severe gastritis. You'll need to stay under observation before they let you go home."

"What?!" I blurted out in horror. "My finals start on Monday!"

This was supposed to be the quiet week before final exams. Missing them wasn't an option.

"Then behave," David replied coolly. "Do exactly what the doctor tells you, and you'll be fine by Monday. And stop that ridiculous diet of yours. You're only destroying your own body."

Seriously? I was lying in a hospital bed, and he still had the energy to lecture me. embarrassing me?

"I'm not on a diet, Mr. Sherlock Wannabe," I shot back sarcastically. "I wasn't eating because I didn't have any money."

He stared at me for a moment before speaking.

"Then you'll stay at Lindsay's apartment until you have a stable income."

"What?"

"You'll ruin my family's reputation otherwise. Imagine the headlines: 'Close Friend of the Robinson Family Starves Because She Can't Afford Food.' That story would stay in the papers for weeks." His tone left no room for negotiation. "It's final. You'll live with Lindsay until you can support yourself."

"You're not my father!" I protested.

Even with an IV needle stuck in my hand, my tongue remained as sharp as a razor.

"You've got two choices," he said calmly. "Stay here until you've fully recovered... or move in with Lindsay."

"I choose my own life. I'm going back to my apartment."

"Fine." he snapped, then... suddenly his lips curled into a faint smile. "Then you can pay the hospital bill yourself."

I blinked. WHATTT?

"The total is thirty-five hundred dollars. Payment is due today."

He was threatening me.

"Jerk!" I hissed.

"I am." he said proudly... Not a trace of shame crossed his face.

"So it's settled. You're moving in with Lindsay." He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve before continuing, "I'll be leaving town for a tournament and won't be back for several weeks. Take care of yourself."

'What does that have to do with anything?'

'Why would ... me being sick matter, if he's leaving town? What a strange man.'

---

That afternoon, David took me to Lindsay's apartment.

It was spacious of course, with more than enough bedrooms. I'd stayed here several times before, so I already had a room I usually used.

But the moment I stepped inside, I froze.

Every single one of my belongings from my rented apartment was already neatly arranged in that room. Is he a Dumbledore?!

Everything... Like... everything?! I slowly sat down on the bed, my body still weak.

"...Why are all my things here?"

"My men picked them up."

David placed my medicine neatly on the bedside table before continuing.

"Besides, your landlord said you hadn't paid rent for two months."

I swallowed. Gulp.

"And?"

"He asked me for the money." he answered coyly.

"...Then?"

"I paid it." He looked at me with obvious annoyance. "It would damage my reputation if people found out my sister's friend couldn't even pay her rent."

Was I....really that much of a burden? I lowered my head. "I'm sorry for causing you so much trouble." My fingers tightened around the blanket. "I promise I'll pay you back. How much do I owe you?"

My heart pounded. It had to be a fortune. Would I ever be able to repay him?

"You only need to stop being stubborn." His voice turned cold. "You can't even afford your tuition or your meals, so just accept my help. Quit acting so proud." Then he scoffed. "I honestly can't believe someone who's broke and overweight can be as stubborn as you."

With that, he turned around and walked out of the room.

I didn't answer. What a Jerk!

I simply lowered my head as a single tear slipped down my cheek. Was I really that pathetic?

Ugly. Fat. Poor. The worst part... I couldn't even defend myself when someone humiliated me like that.

---

"Eat!!" David returned carrying a tray. A bowl of rice porridge. A glass of warm water. Several pills. "If you want to go back to college next week, you'll do as you're told." He sat down across from me, folded his arms, and watched me like a prison guard making sure his inmate didn't misbehave.

I sighed in defeat and picked up the spoon. The doctor had explained that because my stomach lining was badly inflamed, I needed to eat soft porridge every two hours—even if it was only a few bites. It would hurt. It would taste awful. But if I wanted to recover quickly, I had to force myself. The cruelest part? No spicy food. No dairy...Wonderful! Absolutely wonderful. Yes, that was sarcasm.

I swallowed spoonful after spoonful. My throat felt painfully dry, and every swallow made me wince.

"I hired a chef to prepare your meals every two hours."

I looked up.

"Lindsay can't even cook instant noodles, so expecting her to take care of you would be asking for a miracle."

A smirk tugged at his lips.

"She'll probably end up eating porridge with you anyway. That kid..." He clicked his tongue in mock disappointment, clearly teasing his own sister.

I stared at him, confused....Did I hear that right? He'd hired a personal chef...Just for me? Why would he go that far? Was he really only protecting his reputation...Or was there another reason he refused to admit?

As one of the city's most famous athletes—and a billionaire, no less—perhaps appearances mattered that much to him? He suddenly stood.

"Oh, and one more thing."

I looked up.

"Your painting..."

A faint smile flickered across his face. "It was beautiful."

Then he walked out, quietly closing the door behind him.

I sat there in silence, replaying his words over and over.

'Your painting... it was beautiful.'

My eyes slowly widened.

Wait...could it be...was he the one who bought my painting?